Like Devil's Snare
by TopazRubyQueen
Summary: Charlotte Soleil was everything Tom Riddle could have loved... But this is not a love story. [Dual POV. Yes, she's an OC (and there are others) but I promise she's interesting and completely necessary. Begins just before the Chamber of Secrets is opened. Lots of Slytherin characters. Tom isn't evil, but he's about to make some very harmful choices. Mostly canon-compliant.]
1. Prologue I

_**Prologue **_**I**

With the curtains drawn, the four-poster bed felt like a tomb.

Or maybe, Charlotte thought, that was only the fading afterimage of her nightmare. It clung to her as cobwebs do when one ventures into a forsaken place. The creases and folds in the green silk surrounding her became the outline of a gravestone—even the name, _Desrosiers_, appeared, as though stitched into the fabric.

But it would be worse to shut her eyes. Against the blackness, she would see the man. In profile at first, fully himself and yet somehow unrecognizable, a trick of the mind only achieved in a dream. And then he would turn, transform all at once from anonymity to infamy, and stare with those mismatched eyes—the eyes she knew belonged to the most feared wizard in the world.

Did others have nightmares of Grindelwald? Perhaps. But _their_ dreams were constructed solely by imagination, fed by newspaper headlines and stories passed from person to person. Easily cast off with the blankets in the morning.

She had been in that graveyard, could still remember the feeling of her shoes sinking into the earth and the way the sun had seemed too bright for such a day—even though it was August and that weather was to be expected in Paris. They'd gone to pay their respects, her and her parents. She hadn't thought to wonder, then, whether it was wrong for there to be a shared tombstone. Her mind had other questions, and to this day they, too, remained with her. Why did this happen? Will it happen to me? Two little questions, such simple words. But even at ten, she knew they weren't as simple as they sounded. "This" went beyond death. "It" was more than murder. More than betrayal, too.

She remembered looking past her mother and catching sight of a man standing nearby—an ordinary looking gentlemen her mother paid no attention to, might not have even seen. But Charlotte saw the telltale light and dark of his gaze as plainly as if magic offered him no disguise. Her unconscious mind and imagination had taken some artistic liberties with this moment when it was reenacted in the nightmare, but the worst truth of it was the same. The very man who had swung the ax clean through a limb of her family tree had come to see some of the misery he wrought. And not only that, not only had he singled them out in this way, but he wanted it known.

At the time, she had been preoccupied with the fear that he could get inside her mind with that look. She had shut her eyes, tightly, crinkled at the corners. Her mother thought she was crying and stroked her hair to soothe her. Her father squeezed her hand.

It was terrifying to think that Grindelwald might reappear, target her directly—but the very real threat of this possibility drove her to master as much magic as she could in the years that followed. She was glad she'd seen him that day. Without that, who could say if she would have taken her studies as seriously? Would she have bothered with anything other than the plants she felt so at home with? Instead, she had learned magic her classmates wouldn't think of until N.E.W.T. level Defense Against the Dark Arts—unless they all practiced secretly as well and were keeping it quiet.

And yet as much as she told herself she could be grateful for that encounter, it still didn't erase the lingering unease that, every so often, crested into a wave of despair.

She pushed aside the silk drapes closing her in with a bit more force than necessary. Her tears couldn't _fix_ anything. Couldn't bring back the dead; couldn't resolve arguments; and certainly couldn't undo the vow her mother had made that sent them to live in Great Britain instead of France. Nothing could undo that. Determined to occupy her mind with something else, she checked the time. Too late to go back to sleep, but too early to go to the greenhouses. Homework it was then. She glanced at the passageway to the common room, certainly a more comfortable place to study, but she didn't want to run into _them_ again. Intrude on a secret late night meeting for their unofficial club.

It was all very clandestine, only the light of the fire to illuminate their conversation, words spoken in low voices. She could distinguish who was speaking but none of what they said. Yet just knowing who was gathered there was enough to stop her from setting foot in the common room, even with her then heightened curiosity about what they were saying. Lestrange's voice was the easiest to pick out. Not because out of all of them he was the one most closely related to her—their great-grandparents had been siblings—but because she didn't think she could ever forget the sound of the words "_tu es un traiteur de sang_" spat at her, even years later. His poor use of French aside (_traîtresse_ not _traiteur_), the meaning was clear: the Soleil family had earned the title blood traitor, and the best she could hope for from the purebloods was to be ignored.

Nothing short of a bottle of Felix Felicis could have made her walk into that room then—although the potion's effects, she imagined, would have told her to avoid such a gathering too. The worst sort of enemies are the once who you might have once expected to be your friends.

* * *

...Author's Note...

It is worth mentioning that this is the third published draft of this story. It was previously called She Who Must Live a Lie. If you happen to have read that story and were thinking, when you saw this one, "This premise and that name sounds oddly familiar, didn't I read this already?", that's why. But this is not the same story. The best way to put it, I think, is that Like Devil's Snare is the twin of She Who Must Live a Lie; identical in many ways, but completely distinct and individual. I hope you'll give Like Devil's Snare a try, whether you are a new reader or a fan of She Who Must Live a Lie.

Thanks so much for reading~

PS. The cover is a work in progress.

* * *

-Edited 6/14/2020-


	2. Prologue II

_**Prologue **_**II**

"_I've waited and waited for you... at lasssst, you've come to find me, to ssset me free... let me loossse... on the Mudbloodsssss..." _

_"...__They can't be trusted, you know. __The onesss who are not, truly, of magical blood."_

The Basilisk's hissing voice echoed in Tom Riddle's mind. He looked down at his parchment to see yet another splotch where the ink had bled out from the nib while his thoughts wandered. One for reliving the discovery of his claim to Salazar's Slytherin's legacy. One for reveling in the knowledge that he exclusively had control of a monstrous creature with the power to kill a person on sight. He'd never been so unfocused in all his time at Hogwarts. He'd also never had so many _better things _to be doing while he was instead obligated to write an essay about ingredients for a potion he would likely never make.

He wouldn't have minded quite as much if this most recent diversion had at least been some fantasy of power, and therefore pleasant, like the others. This recollection of near humiliation, on the other hand, was most unwelcome.

It should have been a moment of pure triumph, his initiation into the role of Slytherin's Heir. But the Basilisk had degraded it, and _him. _

It hadn't directed its accusation at him outright—perhaps it couldn't; he was, after all, its master—but Tom himself was exceedingly familiar with the art of carefully cloaking the truth. Without being erased entirely, the facts could be obscured and confused, hidden entirely from those with inferior discernment. But he wasn't one to be fooled by that. It was clear to him that the Basilisk must have learned somehow, had some magical means of knowing, that the Heir of Slytherin it now served didn't possess the same pure lineage as his predecessors.

_The ones who are not, truly, of magical blood._

But what did it matter to him? It was ridiculous to think it made him any less of a wizard. Absolutely absurd. Would purebloods, always so quick to assert their assumed superiority, fear and obey him if _he_ were not superior to _them_? They were nothing compared to him; and they knew it. He made sure of that.

What he did not tell them was that there was nothing extraordinary about them at all. Unless you counted the ease with which they could be manipulated by their belief to the contrary. If they wanted to believe that, he could lie for their benefit—a deceptive phrase, as it was truly for his own gain. He could make them feel important, entitled—and willing to do anything to maintain their _birthright_.

..._not, truly, of magical blood._

The feather end of the quill he held quavered with his fury.


	3. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

* * *

How people could find _so __many_ utterly _meaningless _things to talk about, Tom could not fathom. The collection of students behind him had been chattering away insipidly for the better part of an hour, and, although he'd still been able to finish up his Transfiguration reading and make a good start on his assignment for Ancient Runes, he would have much preferred to have done so in silence. He wondered, not for the first time, how easily Professor Slughorn might be persuaded to give him a pass on this particular prefect duty, keeping an eye on things in the common room.

At last, the group nearby dispersed and Tom was moving on to Herbology, when he noticed the figure of a girl had appeared next to his table. He could guess how this would go... _I know you aren't in my year, I feel__ silly for asking, but you're _so intelligent; _anyway, I can't seem to translate these runes... _Any excuse to speak with him. _Professor Merrythought said that you might be able to help me with today's lesson... __I think I dropped something over here a little bit ago. Do you mind if I have a look around? _He was used to these interruptions—used to, in that he had learned to expect them, not that they had ceased to be an irritation.

But as he donned his mask of polite interest and looked up at the girl, he met the eyes of Charlotte Soleil. Suddenly this became a very different sort of interaction. She wouldn't be there scrounging for a crumb of attention; she never had done before. And even better, this was an opportunity. For, although she was a pureblood—the group who had proven themselves most amenable to his influence—he hadn't made an effort to bring her into his circle. Yet.

"Could I borrow your Ancient Runes dictionary?" she asked. "I won't be but a moment."

"If you only need it for a minute, don't bother taking it away. Have a seat. I don't mind." He pushed the book towards her. With a blink-and-you-miss-it smile, she took the chair opposite him—somewhat hesitantly, he noticed. He supposed she didn't think she deserved the privilege.

The dictionary sprung open, roughly to where their last lesson had been focused, as he lifted his hand from the cover. It was a display of nonverbal, wandless magic that should have gotten more acknowledgement than the simple "thank you" he received in response. Tom looked on with rapidly increasing annoyance as Charlotte continued to turn the pages in the same manner. "Impressive," he said, loathing what truth, however small, lay in the statement. "Most people can't do that."

"You mean most students—Hogwarts' students, that is—can't." She shrugged and added, "Lots of witches and wizards out in the world use magic like this all the time. You wouldn't know that, I suppose..." These purebloods, always thinking they were better than everyone else— "And at Beauxbatons, we were taught differently," Charlotte continued.

"How so?" he asked, genuinely curious, although he spoke through gritted teeth.

Her answer came with more enthusiasm than he'd expected. "At least once a week, we would have special demonstrations of magic. The kind that can't be taught directly because it has no name, no specific wand movement; it operates on instinct, on imagination—and a good amount of willpower helps." She didn't know it, but Charlotte had his rapt attention. And also a considerable amount of envy directed her way. "Here they say we must learn the basics before inventing our own magic, but they underestimate us. I told Valeria this same thing and the next thing I knew she was enchanting everything from cloaks to socks, bringing all of her designs to life. And why shouldn't she? I often wonder how many people leave here assuming they can only do the magic they get out of a book, and then I think how glad I am to know better."

He had known she was talented with spellcasting, but this was beyond what he'd been aware of. If this was how she thought about magic, there was no doubt that she was powerful... And he wanted her power to serve his own interests. He knew then—there was no more question in the matter—Charlotte Soleil must belong to him.

"And you too, you know better." She'd turned timid again. But that suited him fine. He dipped his head in agreement, a smile easily coming to his lips. Reclining into his chair, he gazed off over her shoulder, making a show of thinking deeply about how to respond. Whatever he said next would be aimed at gaining her eventual loyalty, and that was the task to which he truly devoted his mind then. Before he had the chance to speak, however, he noticed her eyes had been drawn to his own open book and the parchment lying atop it, his Herbology homework. Something about it had her teetering on the edge of speech.

"Is there something you wanted to say?"

"It's just I noticed..." she began, still hesitant. "You've mislabeled this, here," she pointed to a sketch and tapped above words that were now flowing across the page, swapping places with what had been transposed. He didn't see he had much choice but to reply, "I'm glad you noticed. Thank you." Even though those were the last words he wanted to come out of his mouth then.

"Herbology is my favorite subject. I saw that's what you were working on and I was admiring the detail in your drawing when I saw the mistake, and I thought you'd want to know—" The way she spoke now was in such contrast to just moments before. Then, tentative; now, as if she couldn't get the words out fast enough. "I suppose you think I'm showing off." He stared at her, smiled and shook his head. Her eyes averted, her voice soft—how could he mistake those actions for confidence? And, he thought, if she found a source of self-assurance, of courage, outside of herself, she would never forsake it. Them. Him.

"You show talent in many subjects, I could see any being your favorite. What sets Herbology above the rest?"

She shifted her shoulders dismissively. "It's that I like plants."

He angled himself to catch her eye. "That's all there is to it?" he asked in teasing incredulity. And then, leaning away, as if he were no longer interested. "I was only curious. It seems unusual. Especially when so many of them can poison or burn or bite you..." A note of disdain crept into his voice; he didn't care much for Herbology.

Charlotte laughed. "There's really nothing to be afraid of if you know how to tend them."

"I'm not _afraid_ of them."

"Of course not. That's why I found it amusing. You don't seem like you would be. I only thought, lots of people are." She gave another little shrug, and then, after a pause, said a bit more softly, "It's sentimental, I suppose..." Only just surfacing from his anger at the suggestion that _plants_—fanged, toxic or otherwise—could cause him fear, it took him a moment to realize she was answering his question. He prompted her to go on. "I've grown up around plants. My mother has always kept a garden, for her work." There was no need to elaborate on that further. Anyone who spent time around Professor Slughorn while he was in Charlotte's presence knew Lisabelle Soleil was an accomplished Potioneer and Herbologist.

"Ah, that explains it then," he said, although he hadn't the faintest idea what that was like. Mothers and homes and childhood comfort, none of that had a place in his experience.

Charlotte had gone back to scanning the Runes dictionary for some particular entry, which left Tom time to reevaluate his strategy. The mention of Charlotte's mother had given him an idea. Madame Soleil may have earned a high degree of distinction in her field of work, but if you asked any pureblood about her the first thing they'd mention was the very public announcement she had made four years previously, in which she stated that she would never, under any circumstances, assist Grindelwald. Naturally, seeing this as a betrayal, they treated her with distrust after that. Distrust which extended to her daughter. None of the pureblood students were friendly with Charlotte. She was cut off from the elite circle she would feel she had a claim to; and not only that, the rest of the students treated her with caution as well.

He regarded her contemplatively, waiting for her to look up again; in the meantime, concentrating on remembering how to sound sympathetic.

She closed the book and finally noticed his attention was directed at her. To his surprise, she held his gaze, a questioning look in her eyes. "It must be difficult, not being welcomed by anyone," he said. "Two years. That's a long time to feel isolated." Charlotte looked about to contradict him. He could guess on which point. "You have Valeria, of course, but— well, she isn't the friend you would have imagined for yourself, is she? She doesn't have the same... status."

Tom had thought she would cast her "friend" aside in a heartbeat, once she realized what he was offering—instead, a storm gathered in her eyes. "And if, two years ago, I couldn't imagine myself being friends with someone like Valeria, that was my mistake." At that, Charlotte's defense of the half-blood girl, something came to life, began to blaze within him; a fire that would devour more words like those.

But she was standing now, had risen and was saying, "Thank you for letting me look up those runes." Without another word, she left him at the table, burning inside with the need for something he didn't yet understand.

* * *

...Author's Note...

I thought it would be interesting to address the inconsistencies between the way magic is used and the way we see it taught at Hogwarts, and the best way I could think to do that was to give Beauxbatons a very different curriculum, so that Charlotte could talk about it.

...I can still see so many ways to improve this chapter, but this is the best I can do right now. As much as I'd like to just keep rewriting endlessly until it's "perfect", I know I have to move on to the rest. Hoping to have Chapter 2 ready for you soon~


	4. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

* * *

"I can't believe you made me do that," Charlotte said, dropping onto the sofa where Valeria was waiting for her.

"_Make _you? I didn't make you do anything."

"After telling me all week I should try talking to Tom Riddle, you coincidentally, _urgently _needed to use this book, for a class you don't even take, while he's in the common room?"

Valeria grinned. "Well, _I _can't believe I almost had to throw that book in the fireplace to get you to speak with him."

All the amusement left Charlotte. "You wouldn't— That was my father's, and his father's before that! Given to him by his grandmother—"

"All the way back to Merlin himself, I'm sure," Valeria said dryly. "I'm surprised you let me put my filthy little half-blood hands on it at all." She ended this with a laugh, but Charlotte's face warmed with embarrassment.

"Val, don't say things like that..."

Valeria, returning the book to her with a delicacy that made her chide herself further, immediately changed the subject. "What I want to know is whether anything _interesting_ happened over there." She tilted her head towards the table where Tom was now packing up his things.

"Other than him saying he didn't mind if I sat with him, and then starting a conversation with me—"

"Practically a declaration of undying love, coming from him," Valeria noted, wearing a knowing look that Charlotte suspected was only half in jest.

Laughing, Charlotte continued, telling how she had noticed the error on his assignment and told him—(Bold," said Valeria. "I'm sure you got away with it though.")—and then backtracking to share how she had almost done something even bolder and suggested she and Tom practice "imaginative magic", as she always thought of it—("I don't blame you for not saying anything, but..." Valeria's face broke into a grin, her eyes gleaming, "Next chance you get, do it.")—and completely avoiding any mention of blood status.

It had felt good to walk away from Tom, to show that she wouldn't listen to him imply that her friend had less worth because her mother was a muggle. But the triumph was soured by the knowledge that her departure had been in equal part driven by fear of letting that temptation, to be one of the elite again, into her mind. It had caught her off-guard, coming from someone who was not himself one of the "Sacred Twenty-Eight", as the English pureblood families referred to themselves. But Tom Riddle had somehow insinuated himself into their ranks and now played the part better than she could. More than anything, it confused her.

He didn't try to speak with her in the days that followed; in fact, it seemed she'd turned completely invisible again. At least, she thought so until she noticed the whispers exchanged behind hands in the common room, at breakfast, before Transfiguration began. Even students from other houses would glance at her and then lean their heads together to converse about— what exactly?

She had almost convinced herself she needn't assume it had anything to do with her, that the actions were only a coincidence, but over lunch Valeria, as nonchalantly as could be, said, "There's a rumor going around that you and Tom Riddle will be going to a certain Christmas party together, have you heard?" Without waiting for a response, she added, "And before you go blaming me for that, my exact words were 'I _wouldn't be surprised_ if'. You know I don't gossip in lies. And I wouldn't have said anything at all, but after the eighth person within _half an hour_ asked me whether I knew anything about the relationship the two of you have—" Charlotte laughed. "People do jump to conclusions, don't they?" Valeria continued. "Anyway, the reactions were priceless! All except for Perdita Pepper's; she was a little frightening, not to mention rude. She immediately assumed that your mother, esteemed potioneer and all, must have sent you a love potion to use on him. Can you believe that?"

"The only way my mother would do something like that would be if the plan was to make some other _suitable _boy jealous," she replied, with a sound that was near enough to a snort as to be about as welcome in Lisabelle Soleil's house as Tom would be as her daughter's boyfriend.

"Perdita wouldn't think of that, would she? She's a mudb—" She caught herself, clearly remembering the little speech they (the Slytherins) had all been given a few weeks prior, after an incident between Lestrange, Mulciber and some Ravenclaws. "Muggle-born," she said with a scornful little huff and a glance towards the sixth-year prefect who was sitting near enough she might overhear. Thalia Thistledown had taken it upon herself to be extra vigilant about this new "rule", even though it was obvious Professor Slughorn had very little intention of enforcing any punishment. But why miss an opportunity to feel important and in power? She was in Slytherin after all. And didn't Slytherins all prize their ambition?

So they said. But Charlotte had often wondered how the Sorting Hat could have possibly thought _she_ would live up to the ideals of the serpent house. If it had been a witch or wizard who made the decision, she would have assumed they had been offered some incentive to place her there, the legacy of Salazar Slytherin being known to her parents and likely appealing to them. At first, she'd genuinely thought it was the only house purebloods could be sorted into, but that turned out not to be true. So some magical force, an ancient spell, really had decided _this_ was where she ought to be. Apparently. ...She still wasn't convinced it was impossible for there to be more to it than that.

"Anyhow," Valeria went on, "a love potion wouldn't do you much good. I think he must be immune to them. There's _no way_ no one's tried it yet."

"Maybe he has someone taste everything for him, like a king afraid of being poisoned," Charlotte giggled.

"Some of those friends of his really would do something like that," Valeria answered, her eyes wide. "As devoted to him as Grindelwald's acolytes." She shook her head in disbelief.

Charlotte had numbed herself to hearing Grindelwald's name—if she hadn't, she would constantly, as he was talked about all the time, be in anxiety; might even have to fight back tears in the middle of a class—but she still hated the sound of it. And the word _acolytes._ As if he were a god to them. It explained a great deal, but in this case understanding only made it more frightening.

"What do you think it is about him that makes them act that way?" she asked.

"Well he's brilliant, for one thing. One of the absolute best the school has seen. That's what all the professors say." Charlotte didn't realize, until she registered with surprise that Valeria was speaking about Tom Riddle, that she had been expecting an answer about Grindelwald.

She shook herself out of those thoughts, grinned and said, "They can't know that. Even Professor Merrythought isn't _that _old."

Valeria laughed. "But the point is _they say it_. That counts for something. Counts for a lot."

As the day went on, Charlotte grew more nervous, knowing that the false rumor was spreading and Tom was likely to hear it. She couldn't help hoping, just a tiny, tiny bit, maybe he would find her and say, "We may as well go together now that everyone already thinks it's true. Seems easier than correcting them all, don't you think?" But she also dreaded the alternate way that conversation could go; he might tell her she needed to put a stop to it, might accuse her of lying to get attention. Either way, she was on edge, waiting for him to approach her. It did cross her mind that she could talk to him first, but what would she say?

In the past, she couldn't help feeling foolish whenever she imagined becoming part of the crowd of girls who were hopelessly in love with Tom Riddle—the hopelessness of their dreams was near enough a fact, for while he behaved politely and sometimes even charmingly towards them, he never showed any interest in forming a relationship beyond that—and Charlotte was decidedly opposed to wishing, pathetically, to be the lucky one. She stubbornly refused to act any differently—even as, thanks to Valeria, little sprouts of hopefulness had begun to spring up in her too. And, stubbornness aside, that hope meant she wasn't going to go out of her way to tell Tom she was sorry about all the talk and to promise to correct anyone who asked her about it. Not when, if she left it up to him, there was a chance...

So she waited.

* * *

**...Author's Note...**

Yes, I know Muggle-borns were not canonically allowed in Slytherin. I think it's kind of weird that a thousand years later that was somehow still being upheld. So I decided to ignore it. Also it is much more convenient for there to be someone in the same house as my other characters, who they would have more reason to interact with. This allows me to bring up the prejudice, and show how it works between different groups, more easily, more naturally, I think. This way, it doesn't have to be an abstract discussion, and I can instead _show _their prejudice in action. (It makes Perdita a pretty interesting character, too; I might end up writing much more about her than I intended.) That said, I introduce some Gryffindors in the next chapter, so it's not like all my characters are Slytherin.

Also, a question for you: Should I give Lestrange, Mulciber, and Avery first names? I've always somehow felt like "it's not my place" to choose the names of these characters who are already established, however loosely, in the original series. But does it sound too unnatural to always call them by their last names? Particularly for Charlotte to do so, is what I'm wondering. I think, if I leave it this way, it will need some kind of explanation, which should be easy enough (they all prefer to go by their family names because they think they're showing off their "important connections" or something like that). But what do you all think?


	5. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

* * *

In the week that followed their conversation, Tom barely thought of Charlotte. The how, who and when of his forthcoming Basilisk attacks consumed his mind any moment he wasn't doing schoolwork. And yet, most of his classes being shared with her, he found it difficult to put Charlotte out of his mind completely.

Or rather, it wasn't _Charlotte _who occupied his thoughts, it was curiosity—a need to understand her defiance of those Pureblood ideas. To make sense of the irony that what he had begrudgingly bound himself to, had forced himself to take up as a means to an end, she had let fall from her grasp as if it were of no value, even as if it were abhorrent to her. He couldn't help thinking of another Pureblood witch who had so carelessly abandoned the status her ancestry gave her; but if Merope Gaunt's actions sickened him, were repellent in his mind, the opposite was true with Charlotte Soleil.

As much time as he spent dwelling on his eagerness to command the Basilisk, he certainly didn't put his Parseltongue to much use with the great serpent. So far, he had seen no reason to return to the Chamber of Secrets. It really was too much trouble to get through the entrance. And then there was the Basilisk itself.

Tom knew that Salazar Slytherin's intention had been to protect the school from exposure to the Muggle world, at _any_ cost, and that this was what drove the Pureblood-preferential philosophy the Hogwarts' Founder had advocated—logical enough, he supposed—but the Basilisk spoke like every modern day Pureblood, with a head full of ridiculous notions about their right to rule over other wizards, not based on any talent, but because of who they were _born_. More _they don't _deserve_ to be here _and less _it's for the good of Hogwarts_. And it went on _and on _about how the only good wizards came from the old families.

And he realized in the midst of these thoughts that it wasn't the fact that he had to sneak through a girl's bathroom to get to the Chamber entrance, or that that entrance was actually a very lengthy _slide _(the indignity of it!), that kept him from spending time in what should have been his favorite place in the castle. So he resolved to go visit his _pet_. His weapon. It would learn to show him some respect.

"So, you're part of Professor Slughorn's elite little club now, are you?" A girl's voice carried into the corridor from the courtyard.

"I think he's just trying to bulk up his guest list for this one evening, '_the more the merrier'_, you know. Not sure if I'll make the cut for regular meetings," a boy answered. His tone made it apparent he couldn't care less whether Slughorn saw fit to invite him to future dinner parties. Whoever he was had at least some sense, then.

"Charlotte Soleil is part of that crowd, isn't she? So she'll be there?" asked another boy, and Tom slowed his already leisurely pace. What reason could these—he glanced sideways through a stone arch at them—these older Gryffindor students have for speaking of Charlotte? Engrossed as they were in their conversation, they didn't notice him stop nearby. Leaning on the wall, he gazed up at the sky as if contemplating the weather. That was something a person—a person with very little of importance to occupy them—might do, wasn't it?

"She'll be there on my arm if I can manage it," replied the first boy. "I won't make a big deal out of it. It's not as though I'm trying to sweep her off her feet. It just seems a good way to make introductions, get to know each other better. We never got the chance before."

A good opportunity to get to know her better...

"Elizabeth, what's that face for? I know _you_ weren't expecting to go with me—"

"Do you remember how keen the girls in the row behind me were on our Charms lesson today?"

"Yes, you kept rolling your eyes at them. It was very amusing. But what does that have to do with—"

"They kept whispering about using the spell to make Tom Riddle forget Charlotte Soleil, as if there's something between them. You know I'm terrible with names, I didn't realize until now it was the same girl you'd mentioned. Oliver, I'm so sorry! If I'd put it together sooner—"

"I heard them as well," joined a third boy, "and you might still have a chance, Oliver. There were plenty of things in that conversation _clearly not _based on fact. Weren't there, Elizabeth?" The girl blushed, for some reason, and only became redder when Tom Riddle himself interrupted their discussion.

All of them lounging in the grass, he towered over the four Gryffindors. "I heard my name and, naturally, stopped to listen." Could anyone else make eavesdropping sound like a perfectly harmless and acceptable activity, the way he could? Doubtful. He was practiced at it. "I might as well clear away any confusion where Charlotte is concerned," he continued, fixing his attention on Oliver. "She _has _agreed to join _me _at Professor Slughorn's Christmas party. I'm afraid you never really had a chance. She and I are in the same year, both Slytherins— I asked her right away. ...Does she even know who you are?" That was a well-aimed dart, he observed, savoring the obvious displeasure this question gave the other boy. Although he would have liked a bit more anger, less sadness, in Oliver's expression. Pathetic.

Tom stared off towards the greenhouses, his plan continuing to evolve. The Basilisk could wait for another day. "She's expecting me now, as it happens, so I won't stay and chat. I suppose we'll see you at _la f_ê_te_." He had no idea from where in his mind the French word for party had been conjured up, but had to congratulate himself on using it; it gave the appearance of being close with Charlotte, using her native language, as if they spoke often. Sometimes he impressed even himself.

Once out of eyesight of Oliver and his friends, who would expect him to be moving with haste, he took his time along the path he typically only took to Herbology. If she wasn't in one of the greenhouses, then she was probably safely behind a password-guarded door in the dungeons, where _Oliver _couldn't get to her first if he took it upon himself to confirm what Tom had said. As he walked, he tried out different phrases in his mind. _I'd been planning this very day to see if you would accompany me to the Christmas party, as my date. Imagine my surprise, then—not to mention, my delight—when I heard I had already asked you, and that you'd said yes. _Or maybe he would try again to remind her of what she was missing out on, the connection to the other Purebloods, which he could offer her. A little extra incentive to accept his invitation couldn't hurt, could it?

Noticing the door to Greenhouse Three ajar, he looked there first. Sure enough, there she was. "I thought I'd find you here," he said, getting her attention. "What are you working on?" He inquired casually, coming to stand beside her. Closer than he found comfortable, but he would have to learn to tolerate that.

She turned to look at him, eyebrows raised, pruning sheers in hand. "I think it's obvious what I'm doing. But what are _you _doing here?"

Several tendrils snaked their way towards him. He made a concentrated effort not to move away from them, recalling their previous conversation, in which she had made that _loathsome_ comment. "Why shouldn't I take a walk through the greenhouses? It's not as if there's anything to be of here." Unexpectedly, he thought of his forgone visit to the Chamber of Secrets, the Basilisk. It sent fissures through his sense of calm, fractured his control.

Charlotte eyed him with amusement. "What I said was, there's nothing to fear if you know what you're doing." She watched one of the tiny vines brush against his face, but didn't notice the tension in his jaw. "That doesn't mean you should stick your hand in the mouth of a Venomous Tentacula because _you're not afraid of it_. That would be foolish."

The plant, which had curled around and was now tugging at a lock of his hair, was not Venomous Tentacula, he knew. But even so_— _In a quick motion, he raised his hand towards it; at a violent movement of his wrist, it shrank back and withered, life draining away, taking his anger with it. Charlotte looked on in horror, as if she had been the one burned. "You didn't have to do _that_!" She was clearly appalled, but, inexplicably, she followed with, "I wouldn't have let something touch you that was going to hurt you." As if he would ever take the chance of trusting someone else to have his safety in mind. Why, when he could do it himself? And besides, this had been more of an outlet than a real act of self-defense.

Turning her attention to the vine, Charlotte was chewing her lower lip. What a weak thing she was, so distressed. And over _a plant_. Suddenly becoming conscious of the anxious habit, she released her lip from between her teeth, seeming to kiss the air. Tom watched with little interest as she flicked her wand delicately around. He didn't see the point; the thing was clearly not coming back to life. The magic had visibly traveled through the rest of it, now shriveled all the way down the stem.

Charlotte eventually realized, too, that her efforts were futile. "Nothing I can do..." she murmured, sighing.

"Well there's plenty more." He looked up and down the row. "Unless this was a particular favorite. You don't name them, do you?" He knew this did not fall even in the vicinity of "charming", but he couldn't help himself.

Even as one side of her mouth quirked into a smile, the look in Charlotte's eyes was dark. There was something provocative about the contrast. She looked away, but the challenge he perceived in her expression lingered, seemed to fill the very air around them. He was surprised she couldn't feel it, like electricity_— _lightening, he corrected himself. He was reminded of how he had felt on the occasions he'd had an opportunity to duel. And her lips, so innocuous to him just a moment before—

But the feelings evaporated, like the contents of a cauldron set over too high heat, and he was glad for it.

"Forgive me"—always the way he preferred to phrase his apologies when politeness required them; although his tone would never betray his true feelings, the words felt like more of a demand on the other person than repentance on his part—"I don't know why I said that. It was... insensitive of me. And I wish I could help in some way, but between the two of us there's no doubt you're the expert, so if you say nothing can be done..." He furrowed his brow in ostensible concern. "You do forgive me, don't you?"

Charlotte gave a very forced looking shrug. "It was only one plant, like you said." That was a 'no' on the forgiveness, then. Ordinarily, it wouldn't bother him in the least, but he needed her to agree to go to that stupid Christmas party with him, and so, instead of his usual indifference, he was chastising himself for digging this hole that he'd have to climb out of before he was even on neutral ground with Charlotte again. He was beginning to question whether this was worth it. But a sly smile appeared on her face, and she joked, "You'd best hope they don't remember you when we have to work on them in class, though. They might seek revenge for their fallen brethren."

Every vine and tendril, as if afraid of him, had retreated to a safe distance—"safe" distance; he could destroy them all, easily, if he wanted to—so, whether plants had memories or not, which he didn't think they did, he saw no reason for concern over botanical vengeance. He did laugh, however. Charlotte was clever enough to be amusing and he could appreciate that about her.

"_Alors..._ what are you here for?"

Whatever '_alors' _meant was almost certainly inconsequential, but he found it irritating that she would use words he couldn't understand. He had no trouble smiling in spite of that feeling, however.

"Ever since that day when we spoke, that conversation in the common room, I've... been thinking about you," he began. These were not the lies he was used to telling. They stuck in his throat, tasted sour. Not that Charlotte could tell; she was, finally, giving him her full attention. He hadn't realized how aloof she had been before. But now, she was looking at him and it brought to mind the way he imagined someone under the Imperius Curse would look. He could get used to this.

"What I said about Valeria was completely uncalled for, I realize that now. Of course there's no reason for you to abandon her, but that doesn't mean I can't help you. With the Purebloods. ...I have a lot of influence with them." The focus and eagerness in her face had lessened. He went on, "Charlotte, I could _assure_ that they would welcome you, the way they should have two years ago. If you—"

"What makes you think I want anything to do with them? Or you?"

"—accompany me to the Christmas party that Professor Slughorn is having—"

She inhaled sharply, her mouth agape, as if she could take back the words by sucking them out of the air. They stared at each other. As he registered his pulse beginning to pound, a whisper asked how much it had to do with that little 'or you' she had so cruelly tacked on. He wished his blood would roar louder, enough to drown that voice out.

"You think you're too good for me, don't you?" She was shaking her head, and he would have guessed that she was sincere, but it didn't make sense; there was only the one explanation for her reaction. "With your centuries of wizarding ancestors—"

"I'd have to take the world's largest Draught of Stupidity to think that!" Laughter mixed with her speech, but it didn't give her a relaxed tone. In fact, she'd sounded more at ease when they'd been talking about her dead plant.

Her words put him at ease, however; soothed his indignation. And with his outrage quieted, he laughed and said, "Draught of Stupidity? That's not even a real potion."

"No, of course it isn't, I made it up, but that's not the point."

"What _is_ the point then?"

"I... I _would _like to be your date, but I can understand if you don't want to go with me anymore."

Maybe he didn't, if it was going to make him feel utterly inept. He could interpret Ancient Runes, but this—

"Charlotte? Are you in here? I— Oh!" Valeria came to an abrupt halt when she saw them together. "I'll just wait outside then." The relief on Charlotte's face reminded him of the way one looked when they had been given a reprieve by someone who was threatening them. An expression he knew well. But he hadn't threatened Charlotte at all, and as he watched her already heading towards the door, replying, "No need. We can leave," he wished he'd reached out to stop her. So, while Valeria's gaze was on him, he forced himself to show a flash of a hurt look. For the small price—he told himself it was only a small price—of their thinking he was sulking inside the greenhouse while she and Charlotte talked outside (he predicted), she would hopefully do all the work for him. And he would get what he wanted.

* * *

...Author's Note...

Pleased with myself for getting this chapter done so quickly after the previous one—not that I started from a blank slate, hahaha nooooo. I've been looking at these words so long, I can't even tell if they're any good or just a mess. (This is an open invitation for constructive criticism. Go for it.) Anyway, no promises I'll be getting the follow up to this published as quickly, but I'll do my best.

Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

* * *

Valeria let Charlotte walk out of the greenhouse, but, taking hold of her arm as she passed, stopped her from running all the way back to castle to lock herself in their dormitory and hide for the remainder of the weekend—as if Tom would forget this by Monday and they could go back to ignoring each other.

"Hold on a moment, what _was that_?"

Charlotte turned to face her. "Oh Val, I made an absolute fool of myself!"

"You did something you regret?" she asked, as though needing clarification. Clearly, she was up to something.

Sighing, Charlotte explained, "At first I thought he might be about to make an invitation to the party, making the rumors true and, well, he did—" Valeria's jaw dropped at this. "—but _before_ that, he went on so long about—" _Speak louder,_ Valeria mouthed, tilting her head towards the greenhouse. Charlotte, seeing what the aim of this was, hesitantly raised her voice. "He went on so long about his friendship with the other purebloods and how he could help me be friends with them too, that I thought I had been mistaken. And so I was angry with myself for getting my hopes up like I said I_ wouldn't_, and I was disappointed and hurt and just before he actually _did _ask me I ruined it." She took a breath and tried to make the shrug that accompanied her next words convincing to herself as well as to Valeria. "But no harm done, really. We never talked before. We can go back to that and carry on. Pretend this never happened."

This was met with a look of disbelief, then, "I'm sure he'll understand if you go back in and talk to him. And don't bother trying to tell me you wouldn't regret not making that attempt." The unpleasantness that her friend foresaw was, more than likely, that she would someday have to look back on the romance she could have had with Tom Riddle; but that wasn't the only regret on Charlotte's mind.

Tom was visible to them through the glass, the dark outline of him standing near the Tickling Vine he'd been startled into killing. She knew he must be thinking her reaction had to do with him not being pureblood—he'd said as much, even— and that wasn't her at all. She was better than that. But, if she didn't resolve this, it might as well be true that she thought him inferior; the effect on him would be the same. So Valeria was right. Already the weight of knowing she should have done something different had settled on her.

"I suppose, since he probably heard us anyway..." she said at last. Valeria looked very pleased with herself.

The smell of earth helped her relax as she stepped back into the greenhouse. Her confidence and calm only lasted until Tom turned around, however. He had his arms folded and wore a fixed, blank expression. "So you _will _go to the party with me, then?" He uncrossed his arms at least, and he didn't sound upset, but he didn't sound particularly cheerful either, and why wasn't he smiling? Had she done irreparable damage in the course of five minutes?

"Tom, I'm sorry—"

"I don't need your pity," he cut in. "I heard what you said," he added more lightly. "You don't have to say it again."

She nodded. "You should know, I don't care about all of that pureblood propaganda—that anyone born of a Muggle must be a lesser wizard, is somehow unworthy, or that 'the old families' have to stick together."

Finally, he smiled. "Sometime I'd like to hear how you came to have such radical views for someone with your..." That short-lived smile faded with his voice.

"Pedigree," she supplied. That word used to irritate her, made her think they sounded like animals. It still made her think of animals, only now there was a sort of poetry to it; beastly, inhuman behavior often went hand in hand with the belief that one group was superior to all others. She liked to think the way she used it now was subversive, never mind that she never dared alter her tone to reflect this newfound meaning.

"Huh. I must be doing something right. You aren't upset, running away... I'm glad," he added softly, and then, as though they had done so a hundred times before, he threaded his arm through hers, leading them out of the greenhouse. It had seemed so natural, Charlotte didn't even think as her fingers came to rest on the smooth, crisp fabric of his sleeve. "I meant what I said." He cast a glance sideways at her; she hoped she appeared dignified. "I do want to understand why you're so different from the other purebloods I know."

"And I'm curious how it is that you're close enough with other purebloods to have anyone to compare me to." The words carried an undercurrent of envy, a whisper of an accusation that Charlotte wished had been better concealed. To her relief, Tom didn't give any indication of having noticed.

"I look forward to us spending more time together, then," he said. "Not many people have bothered with getting to know you, have they? I feel I'm on the verge of discovering some rare, new flower." In the corner of her eye, she caught the movement of him shaking his head. "I think I'll have to erase your memory of me saying that." He had stepped away so he could face her, holding her at arm's length. Attempting a laugh, he said, "I meant it to be flattering, but... You understand, I don't have much experience knowing what to say in these circumstances."

"And _what_ _are_ 'these circumstances'?" she asked. So impulsively flirtatious, she wondered if she would have dared were she not speaking to his back.

He had gone on walking ahead of her, but stopped at her question. Looking over his shoulder, he replied, "You aren't going to trick me into making a fool of myself again." His lips were curved into a smile, and Charlotte realized there was not an ounce of logic in the thought she'd had just a moment before, that not seeing his face made it easier to flirt. "Once I have the perfect words to describe... what I'm feeling, I'll be sure to tell you." Although it seemed slightly strange that he kept turning away from her, she was glad she could take in those words without him watching. _W__hat I'm feeling_. Her heart pounded out a rhythm of _feelings _of her own—feelings that were indistinct but demanded attention. Still, the implication of what he said was only the barest hint of something more growing between them, she reminded herself. There was no reason to be swept up by the rush it gave her.

She took his arm again. "Hardly needs to be perfect. The thing about flattery is, what you say doesn't matter so much as how you look." She felt shallow saying this, but, even if it _shouldn't_ be true, didn't everyone, on some subconscious level, know it to be fact? "Which means you could say just about anything. As I'm sure you're aware."

"Anything? I suppose I don't have to Obliviate you, then. That's good."

She laughed. "Well, if you had ended with 'a flower I'd very much like to possess' or something else horribly objectifying, I might feel differently. Not that I'd be letting you take that memory from me. I'd duel you over that."

At this, he smiled. "Would you?" he asked with a hint of surprise. "I wonder, is there any other way you might be persuaded to duel with me? One that doesn't require me to insult you?"

"Name a place," she answered breezily. "It's a Professor who'd need your persuasion. To let us use a classroom." She imagined that request would raise a lot of eyebrows and questions of propriety.

"I'll ask after our next Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson," Tom said, serious and confident—so much so that Charlotte didn't hold herself back in letting this fuel excitement in her. She found it thrilling, the thought of having someone so skilled at magic to practice with, and knew she would be counting down the hours. She spent the rest of their walk back to the castle smiling.

But once they were inside, her daydreams couldn't sustain her smile. She was too aware of how many pairs of eyes were glued to her as she crossed the entrance hall. She wished then that Tom was more talkative; conversation would be something to distract her from the stares. But why was she nervous at all? Was it merely how unaccustomed she had become to this level of attention?

It should have been. But she knew lurking in that discomfort was the thought that some of them would see this as a statement, an overtly expressed position on pureblood superiority—more specifically, a dismissal of it. She'd proclaimed that very opinion to Tom less than an hour ago, but this was different. Somehow.

Their fellow Slytherins would undoubtedly have the strongest reactions, and, as they descended into the dungeons, Charlotte felt increasingly uneasy. As it turned out, however, there was already a spectacle in the common room. For the time being, she was spared.

"_Give it back_, Lestrange! I'm sure you think a _mudblood _like me couldn't curse you if I tried, but do you really want to find out?"

"Miss Pepper!" prefect Thalia Thisledown cried, exerting the full extent of her assertiveness. Why this was directed at the girl being fended off by a shield charm and not the boy who had obviously stolen something, Charlotte could not say. But Thalia's voice softened when the other girl looked at her. "It isn't worth it, Perdita."

Now that she was distracted, Lestrange began thumbing through what must have been Perdita's journal.

Perdita glared at Thalia. "Of course you say that. You don't have to put up with this, or having your books replaced with Muggle children's books, or your parents' non-magical professions made fun of whenever they're brought up, or being _pushed down the stairs_—"

"Arrogant, elitist pureblood trolls!" Lestrange exclaimed, reading from the handwritten pages. Everyone's attention snapped back to him. "And you've made 'pureblood' look like it's dripping blood. That's a bit macabre, don't you think? Anyway," he shrugged carelessly, "you went to the hospital wing and Madame Beauregard patched you and your broken arm up just fine. Or were you afraid the magic wouldn't work on you?" There was no mistaking the sneer on his face.

"As a matter of fact, it isn't macabre at all. I intended for it to look like something a troll might sneeze out," Perdita said, seemingly unfazed.

Charlotte hadn't noticed until then that she and Tom had drifted to different sides of the room as they watched this altercation unfold, but their eyes caught on each other as they each laughed silently—or rather, Tom smirked and Charlotte laughed, until she remembered that she was pureblood, and suddenly didn't know what to think.

Lestrange tore out the page he had been reading and tossed the journal onto the ground. Thalia flinched as it landed in front of her, paper creasing against the floor. She looked to Perdita for permission to collect it on her behalf, but Perdita was focused on what remained in Lestrange's hand. Her gaze darted over to Tom, her bravado deflating with each passing second. Charlotte made a snap decision to involve herself. From where she was standing behind Lestrange, she was able to catch him off guard, seizing the paper with _accio._ She hadn't intended to look at the journal entry, but as she made to tuck it out of reach of anyone who shouldn't have it, in her cloak—which happened to be resistant to summoning charms (a new enchantment Valeria had been trying out)—she saw Tom's name and, almost without realizing what she was doing, read:

_I could save him from them, I could show him how wrong they are. He can't possibly enjoy spending all that time with those arrogant, elitist pureblood trolls. Tom, if you loved me"_—

Charlotte hadn't consciously had these thoughts, but they felt familiar, felt close; the circumstances in which she could have written them herself already searching for homes in her reality.

"Oh! Mademoiselle Soleil, coming to the mudblood's defense—_quelle surprise_."

She hated that the only time she heard French now, barely recognizable though it was, was out of the mouths of people mocking her. Before she could indulge herself in a retort, however, there was a shout of "Accio!" from a direction she hadn't been expecting.

Perdita stood with her wand pointed at Charlotte, whose cloak fluttered at the edges, but no paper went flying towards its rightful owner. Lestrange burst into strident laughter. It echoed in the common room and Charlotte watched, with a dreadful sinking feeling akin to guilt, as Perdita fought back tears.

"Did you see—? That was perfect!" Lestrange beat his fist against the nearby sofa as he continued laughing. He was clearly just about to reenact the scene, when Tom approached.

"Stop being a fool, Lestrange. Charlotte's cloak obviously has magical enhancements," he said brusquely.

"Of course." The other boy collected himself, standing up straighter. The dynamic between them was a touch unnatural, Charlotte thought. Once again, she wondered why people, those closest to him especially, treated Tom this way, with such deference. Perdita, meanwhile, was staring at Tom—the boy of her dreams apparently having just come to her aid. The sensation that was on the outskirts of culpability sharpened. Having glimpsed more of this girl's personal thoughts than she ought to have, she didn't need Divination to sense that she was to be the catalyst for disappointment and heartache.

"I'm sorry," she said, as she handed over the ripped page. A look of confusion took over Perdita's face. Charlotte hadn't known until the words were out of her mouth whether she was going to try to hide the breadth of that apology, use a tone that didn't betray all of her sincere emotions. The confusion settled into curiosity as Perdita reached whatever conclusion allowed her to make sense of this unusual interaction. Charlotte turned to leave, but not before overhearing Lestrange ask, "So, you're on a first name basis with my cousin now?" and Tom reply, to her immense relief, for Perdita's sake, "Yes" and nothing more.

* * *

...Author's Note...

Tickling Vine is not a plant found anywhere in the books, but I thought it sounded like something that belonged in this world.

Also, gonna call myself out and mention that Valeria and Lestrange are a bit too similar in personality/speech patterns. I evidently just love to write center-of-attention, theatrical types who don't much care for spaces between sentences, hahaha.

For those of you who were reading She Who Must Live A Lie, you may remember Perdita Pepper and Thalia Thistledown (or not, because they were pretty peripheral characters, but that's sort of the point). This time around, I've decided ("decided", ha. It was kind of unintentional.) they need to have more dimension and play larger roles, and I'm really excited about that.


	7. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

* * *

"You're avoiding me."

Charlotte stared at the strips of bacon traveling to Tom's plate rather than looking at him. "I didn't know you wanted me to spend every waking hour with you," she replied dryly. She _was _avoiding him; she'd even shown up early to breakfast, but, alas, so had Tom. "It's been less than one day since..." Her mind went blank, apparently unable to form the thought.

His face came into view as he dropped onto the seat across from her, those features she had been so captivated by the previous day, now configured into such an unfamiliar expression she thought she might lean in and smell Polyjuice Potion. But before she could say anything, the uncertainty and nervousness dissolved, something hard taking their place.

"You had me convinced nothing the purebloods could say or do or even think would matter to you."

Charlotte held herself back from wincing. "I know. And," she rushed to add, "that's true!" Tom stabbed at a tomato with his fork.

A laugh, not the sound either of them expected to hear, bubbled out from Charlotte's mouth. She couldn't help it. "I wouldn't have taken you for the brooding, moody type. But," she gestured with her chin, "to hear the testimony of the contents of your plate—" She giggled again.

Rigid and staring fixedly downwards, eyes never having left the tomato, Tom did not join in her amusement. "Forget it." He dropped his silverware with a clatter and pushed up from the table. Charlotte leapt to her feet as well, scrambling out of her seat before deciding to duck under the table to reach him faster. She didn't want to use magic on him in front of everyone—_that _wasn't likely to help her—so she opted for the, hopefully, less embarrassing "Wait!".

He slowed and came to a stop, allowing her to catch up to him. "I'm sure we'd both rather have this conversation somewhere else," she said, lowering her voice. Tom kept completely silent, a breath and a curt nod his only reply. "So... If you want to drop in, you know where to find me."

"I might."

And then he left.

She had thought he was being noncommittal for the same, inexplicable reason she had been so indirect, bordering on cryptic. Evidently, as he did not make any appearance in the greenhouse that morning, it was more to show Tom Riddle would do as he pleased.

Just as well. Charlotte had no idea what she was going to say to him. Even if she did come up with something, who knew what her brain and her mouth would conspire to have her spit out in the moment. Going rogue seemed to be their favorite thing to do when Tom was involved.

The trouble was, she herself didn't know why she'd been dodging him. The reason might be buried in her, accessible if she took the time to tease it out...

Instead, she speculated about how this might look and feel for Tom.

It wasn't as if he were paranoid and overreacting, but to approach her after such a short length of time to call out her avoidance— He must be especially sensitive about... something; she had no way of knowing unless he talked to her. If he wouldn't tell her what the problem was, she couldn't do anything to change what was hurting him. Which brought her full circle to her own dilemma. Perhaps, like her, he was reacting to instincts and emotions that he couldn't fully identify. At any rate, she decided that—both to give him the chance to be a bit more open, and to help keep her from saying anything else she would regret—when she saw him next, she would try to speak as little as possible.

Or maybe this was already the end of whatever had briefly begun to blossom.

* * *

What _had_ he _been thinking_?

Clearly, he hadn't been thinking at all. This was why he _planned_. Running off and doing things impulsively led to... feeling like he didn't understand himself. Talking to Charlotte outside the context of carefully-constructed strategic maneuvers had been nothing but trouble. Worst of all, he couldn't seem to escape it now. It was as if he had entered a labyrinth and kept making wrong turns, and his frustration built with each dead end he faced. Completely out of his depth, he had no choice but to carry on with only the whims that seized him in the moment for direction, unequipped as that left him; while intuition, normally to be trusted, had little to offer. This was especially disquieting given some of his recent desires were wholly at odds with who he thought himself to be.

To his mind, love was an enemy, a temptation to distraction that most people fell prey to and he alone saw the folly of. People who loved spent time focused on others, even putting aside personal wishes and aspirations for their benefit. And where did that get them? Not seared into collective memory for great deeds, of that much he was certain. He saw no reason to contend with attacks that would call him selfish for this belief, so it remained a private thought; though, aside from the negative connotation, he _was_ selfish. And love could have no place in a selfish soul. ...So then _what _was he feeling?

Charlotte exerted this _pull_ on him, gravitational; yesterday, when they'd been walking from the greenhouses to the castle, there had been moments when he'd wanted to shift the very plates that made up the earth so the two of them wouldn't part ways so soon. She was magnetic—no, both of them magnetized, with her having polarity that drew him in and pushed him away, alternating so easily. But, following that metaphor, that meant he had another side too, one that he might find and show and not be repelled. He was, of course, taking this comparison too seriously... but it felt true. (He wasn't, after all, some impassive chunk of metal without any agency.)

So there was attraction, but nothing stood out as its cause. There was the _obvious _culprit, that it was physical, sexual attraction— That didn't seem right, somehow; but then, what else could it be?

Charlotte had likely given up on him visiting her and the plants today, but he thought maybe that would heighten her happiness at his arrival. Then again, if the last day or so had taught him anything about Charlotte Soleil, it was that she would fail to be predictable.

It was the warmest part of the day, but November didn't offer much in the way of comfortable temperatures. Dark clouds drifted over the sun and Tom quickened his pace. In the back of his mind, a voice hissed that he was wasting his time. His practical good sense agreed, supplying that it was likely Charlotte had already left. And yet what was most compelling was the urge to 'see what happens'.

She was coming out of the greenhouse just as he was approaching. She glanced from him, to the oncoming storm; back to him. "Looks like I got here just in time," he said. Opening her mouth to reply, she took a breath, but then only nodded, turned, and went back inside. He followed, the thought of being held hostage by the weather far more appealing than it would be in any other instance. Silence enveloped them along with the warmth and humidity of the greenhouse. Tom let it drag on as long as he could before saying, "You suggested this. I assume you have something to say?" This did not bode well; having to pry conversation out of her, though situated comfortably within his skill set, was not how he wanted to spend today.

Charlotte had made her way over to a small table laden with potted plants, bags of soil and stacks of empty pots. She busied herself with repotting something, avoiding looking at him where he stood a short distance off. Her shoulders dropped as she let out a quiet sigh. "It _was_ my idea, wasn't it?" she muttered, scooping dirt more slowly as she started to answer him properly. "It seemed like the right thing to say at the time. Suggesting we could talk here. I wanted to stop you from being upset. It seems to have worked," she said with the inflection of a question, her mouth forming a hesitant little smile as she looked over at him.

"Upset," he repeated, half laughing, scoffing at the thought as if that could erase what truth there was to it. He certainly wasn't about to delve into why he had reacted the way he did, and this was evidently as open as Charlotte was going to be, so they would have to let the topic drop. "Well, I'm not upset now." He took a few steps towards her, held her gaze. "Do you want me to leave? Since we don't have anything to resolve."

"There's no reason you have to," she answered. "Is there?" she added, worry finding its way into her voice.

He smiled and shook his head, but impatience was starting to build in him. He ought to be profiting from this somehow, at the very least getting to know her better in ways that would help him later on, help shape her into someone he could use. A good plan, but instead he heard himself asking, "Why don't you use magic?" as he nodded towards the trowel still in her hand. "You could enchant it to do the same thing on its own."

"If we weren't meant to use our hands for things, we would have all been born with wands attached to our arms." she shrugged.

He laughed. "Yes, I suppose they have their uses..." Direct contact with someone could make it easier to read their mind, for one thing.

Charlotte turned to him with her eyebrows raised, then quickly looked away. As her cheeks grew pink, she carried on as if nothing had happened, though she determinedly avoided looking at him. His mind was scrambling for something to say, enjoying (to his surprise) that she was thinking of him this way, but annoyed because he hadn't elicited that response deliberately. What to say, what to say, what to say? A wave of frustration crashed over him.

Having put things back in order on the little worktable, Charlotte briefly examined her fingers, and abruptly curled them out of sight self-consciously. Tom came towards her, both of them surprised as he took her hand and brushed his fingers over hers. "I could have done that," she said as she watched the dirt disappear. He suspected that if that were true she would have used magic herself, not hidden her dirt-lined nails from view, hoping he didn't notice.

"You can do that one," he suggested, gesturing to her other hand. He extended his upturned palm towards her. "Or I can."

He didn't like the way he felt when their eyes locked, as she slowly placed her hand in his; the way his pulse steadily increased, and his focus slipped away—not stolen by anything in particular, just... gone. Vanished as if his spellcasting were affecting it, too. Also conspicuously absent was any impulse to draw her nearer. He realized he had been expecting to want to kiss her, touch her—_something,_ to help him make sense of his motivations, offer a clear path for him to take. But here he was again, this damn labyrinth, dead ends at every turn.

It occurred to him then that he _was _touching her. Their fingers, not quite interwoven. He dropped her hand just as thunder began to rumble outside.

"Come see this," Charlotte said, suddenly excited. She grabbed his arm and slid her hand down to clasp his again. He followed her past plants he knew and and plants he didn't, and hoped whatever she would be showing him was of that second variety so he could at least attempt to match her enthusiasm. They came to a stop in front of something he was sure he had seen in a muggle garden, it looked so simple and ordinary. He cast a sideways, skeptical glance at Charlotte, but she was busy removing the nearest pane of glass with a tap of her wand. "Professor Beery just got this recently," she said, still smiling. Finally, something interesting started to happen, as droplets hit the leaves and they frosted over instantly. Which explained the name written on a label sticking out of the pot: "frostleaf".

"There's a sound." Charlotte crouched down to be closer to it, shutting her eyes. A few beats passed. "You can't really hear it with only one..." She rose, disappointed. "I once visited a place where you were surrounded and could hear them. It's magical," she said, laughing at herself as she spoke. "The way muggles think of magic, as something wonderful and mysterious, that we lose because so much of it is everyday life for us. Magical like that." She put the window back together, most of the leaves now crystalized in ice.

Tom didn't care about being awestruck by forces he didn't understand, and he didn't see the appeal of _mystery_, either; he loved magic for its usefulness, the power it gave him. But it wasn't as if he could say that. "I'd like to see that someday," he answered.

"I suppose it's been different for you. You didn't grow up in a wizarding family." Tom tensed at the words, at the same time realizing her tone had nothing in it to warrant that. "Learning about it all, experiencing everything for the first time at eleven..." In fact, her voice had a dreamy quality that told him plainly she was romanticizing it. He held back a derisive snort. "I envy that, just a little bit," she said softly.

"There's nothing to envy about the first eleven years of my life. But if you really feel that way, I'll let you know if I ever encounter any magic to trade pasts." He said it with the finality of closing a book, ready to move on. "So, what are these leaves used for?" he asked over Charlotte mumbling, "My childhood isn't exactly enviable either,"—which he pretended not to hear.

"Exporting to desert regions for exorbitant sums, if you're my mother," she answered. A joke, but Tom found it much more intriguing than the reply that followed. "No potions that I know of, so none that are widely used, but I think it's an ingredient in some sweets. Ice Mice and the like." She had started snapping them off their stems, collecting them in a jar. "It's best to harvest them at this point. More will grow back within a couple days, three at most."

"Are those to eat, then?" He held a leaf still attached to the plant between his fingers. "What does it taste like?"

She paused, took a leaf out of the jar, then broke the end off and placed it on her tongue, looking thoughtful.

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Do you often sample unknown plants like this?"

"It isn't _unknown_ and I would remember if it did anything extreme."

"Are you sure?" He leaned towards her, making a show of studying her face. "I think your lips are turning blue."

"No, they're not." She met his challenge with a smile.

He held her gaze a little longer, waiting for her to break, look nervous, but she kept staring right back at him until he said, "No good trying to fool you." A mix of emotions arose at this. Faint frustration, something like admiration, and—he had flipped the magnet—_regret_ as he took a step back from her.

"I need to ask you something. Why did you take an interest in me? That is, so suddenly?"

"What makes you think this is sudden?" he deflected.

"I see, so you've been secretly pining for me since, when? The moment you saw me?" They stood now as if he hadn't taken that step back at all.

"Would you believe me if I said I'm shy?" Her raised eyebrows answered for her. "How perceptive of you," he said with a smile. Her eyes were brown, he registered for the first time, looking into them intently enough he thought he would memorize their exact color forever—dark brown, a few shades lighter than the pupil. He hoped he was mistaken about committing that to memory; if ever there was an extraneous piece of information...

"What you have to understand is, I'm fighting my instincts. To be close to someone, in any sense, it doesn't come naturally to me." Preferring to speak in half-truths, usually so guarded, he wondered if he would have shared this had he realized how sincere it was before he spoke the words. But, maybe, that was what made them feel so efficacious. "For whatever reason, that's the way I am, and I wouldn't want you to take it personally." Charlotte had hesitantly started to ease back from him, but he reached for her, held on. "It's true everything in me is saying to pull away right now," he said, voice descending towards a whisper. "But somehow, with you, I want to change that." He was too in the moment to assess how much truth was in these words.

It might have been a bit much. Charlotte looked slightly overwhelmed. He noted she didn't remove his hands from her waist, however. "You never answered my question," she said.

"You never answered mine," he tried.

"What was that?"

"You never told me what frostleaf tastes like," he whispered.

He was about to kiss her, but—

"Like an ice covered leaf; I don't think it's meant to be eaten on its own," tumbled out of her mouth so rapidly he almost didn't understand. But regardless, the important thing was enunciated with sharp clarity: this had been a grave error in judgment. "I appreciate what you're trying to overcome, but I think you're rushing things," she said more calmly, as his arms dropped to his sides. It was then that she looked at him again. Just as he was leaning away and he was filled with rage he thought he was containing, thought was expertly disguised by a placid expression. But everything was blurred, unreal; and right as Charlotte came into focus he saw a look of fear. Those brown eyes, frightened and shocked and seeing a version of him she couldn't know.

"Let's forget this happened, then."

He had joked before about erasing her memory. This time, he wasn't joking.

* * *

He told himself it was practical, that to have that distrust seeded in Charlotte was risky—and why not fix it, seeing as he could? He told himself this as he cast Obliviate. While they walked to the castle. When he saw her at dinner. The last thing before he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep that night. He did not question why it needed repeating so many times for him to believe it.

* * *

...Author's Note...

People honestly can be so contradictory in their thoughts and actions from one moment to the next, but it's so difficult to capture that in writing without looking like you simply have no clue what your character is thinking. I tried my best.

Thank you for reading!

-Edited 10/15/2020- (nothing crucial, just little changes)


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